I struggled while enrolled in the public schools, most keenly upon entering junior high: the oversized classrooms, distant teachers, and what seemed irrelevant information became an ongoing source of estrangement for me. So it was a surprise to my parents when religious school sparked my enthusiasm and interest. It might have been that most of my friends were Jewish and thus in close proximity to me at Temple rather than dispersed among the far-reaching and somewhat ominous population of our district junior high. (More than once I was the subject of an anti-semetic slur.) And true too is that the two schools were anathema to each other in look and feel. Temple Emanuel was housed in a multi-storied brick building that beckoned me through its wooden hallways and modest classrooms atop a glorious velvet-laden sanctuary. In contrast, Chandler Junior High was a newly-built, industrial composite, an infinitely corridored ramble that made my head spin. But surely, more than any of this, it was the curriculum that drove me to perform in those after-school classes at Temple Emanuel. I was intrigued by the antics of Cain and Abel, the woes of Sarah, the repetition of the Aleph Bet and the suggestion that the pursuit of the spirit was worth my attention. Continue reading Sayings of the Fathers →

I’ve always believed my grandfather was my inspiration into spirituality. At a certain age, likely seven or eight, I began studying him more closely when he was engaged in his daily prayers. I tend to think that something ignited then. He was an orthodox Jew, Sephardic, emigrated from Turkey to Ellis Island. He and my grandmother spoke Ladino, a mix of Spanish and Hebrew. When we moved from New York to Massachusetts, they came for extended visits. I’d give up my room and bunk with my little brother in the room next door and for that week or two, they inhabited my space apologetically, gratefully. It was never a chore for me. Their visits were cause for celebration. At night I’d listen to their bedtime banter and then their tandem snoring from the other side of the wall, thinking of them tucked into the twin beds in my room, under the pink chenille bedspreads. Gramma in my sister’s old bed, before she moved downstairs, and Grampa in mine, with the view of the moon from the window. Continue reading My Grandfather’s Prayers →

Today, my husband and I took a walk, our usual daily walk down the country road we’ve lived on for almost three decades. But today on our walk instead of the rambling sharing of our minds, we chose to be in silence. We practiced, side by side, a meditative technique we’ve both embraced that entails looking for the place of our unborn nature. Or, more directly, asking for the original “I” to be seen. It is remarkable how swiftly we fell into the silence, a kind of reverence around us. Our steps harmonized on the dirt packed road, our minds unified in something unnamable, untouched. Continue reading Self inquiry, then and now →

The idea for Ethel Katz Finds Her Guru came to me in 2005 while attending a retreat with the popular spiritual teacher, Adyashanti.  I had been enjoying Adya’s teachings for a few years and had taken the leap to fly across the country to “sit” with him for five days, following his prescription of frequent meditation and investigative self-inquiry. As a veteran seeker of thirty years, I fell happily into the retreat routine, enjoying the opportunity for prolonged silent reflection. But towards the end of retreat a funny thing happened — a question kept circulating in my mind:  what would it be like if my mother were here? What would she think; what would she do? Continue reading How Ethel came to be →